I Smother Her | by Paul Walter Hauser

I missed my grandpa’s funeral because of her. I defended her to my parents when they said she was too old for me. 16 and 19 did seem extreme, at the time. I once climbed a tree in her childhood backyard and broke the thickest and tallest branch I could find to give to her. You don’t understand why I did that? You wouldn’t get it. You’re not supposed to get it. It’s between me and her.

This buzzing ink that scrawls my thin pale arms is more than a reminder. A testimony of my devotion to her. A rite of passage for our relationship. A surprise for my muddy bunny. You don’t understand why I call her that. It’s an inside joke that I don’t feel like explaining. I don’t have to. It’s between me and her.

It feels weird to pay for pain, but leaving the artist’s salon, all I can think about is tearing off this clear square and unveiling my decision. My feelings. And in turn, our mile marker for where we are since we became. This Autumn air cools my heated heart.

When I show up at her job, it feels unwelcome. For some reason, she isn’t happy to see me. And that’s never the case. She asks if I can come back when she closes. I demand an answer for her behavior. She has a change of plans and sits me down to unveil something of her own. She has been wanting to break up for some time? I smother her? She doesn’t see us being together forever? I smother her? She wants to see-I SMOTHER HER?!

Her term for my love has me reeling and my sleeves stay at length. She never saw her name on my arm. But it was in that moment, such infancy of my rage that I had already decided she would read my name across hers.

I know her schedule, I know her car, I even have a key to her house. A clearer mind would have asked for it back.

In the hours before dawn, I have her tied securely to a rocking chair in her basement. I play our song on repeat. “Easy” by The Commodores. What isn’t so easy is attempting to etch your name into the arm of someone writhing, screaming, and crying. It doesn’t help that I’m not a tattoo artist.

Once she accepts the situation that she herself created, I hear a DING DONG from the first floor. I accept the potential fate of the situation she created and head upstairs, leaving her to drizzling blood, ink, and Lionel Richie.

It’s her neighbor. They ask that I’d turn the music down. I tell them I can’t, because they’d probably hear Michelle screaming. An awkward laugh and they’re gone.

Oh good, they thought it was a joke. As did Michelle. My muddy bunny. Alright, I’ll tell you the story, but first, let me finish her consequence. Don’t get to use that word much, do we? Even less do we ever enforce it.

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Next time on The Hindsight Bridge: Brooke Pieschke tells the follow-up story to her hilarious “Cheap Shots” (See our May 16^th entry). This time, the girls have a run in with the law and a handful of frat boys. Revisit on November 14^th for more!